Page One
by Coyote Soupus
Summary: AU, post-Akhaten. "She had literally known him for all of one day when this happened. This... memory loss. And now she was stuck on an alien planet with an alien who had absolutely no idea who he was or how to get her back home. The worst part of it was that she had barely known him when he had all his memories, thus she had no idea where to start in order to get them back."
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

**:::**

He was roused by the wholly unpleasant sensation of someone shaking him, forcing him to open his eyes so he could ask whoever it was to _please_ stop shaking him, he was trying to sleep for heaven's sake. Once he opened his eyes, however, they stayed open out of shock because he'd realized that he had no idea where he was or who this person was, staring down at him like she was relieved to see his eyes open. Her mouth formed into a tentative smile, and had he not been so shaken—literally—he would have thought that she was pretty. He still did, but he was more concerned with why she felt the need to shake him and shout for a doctor at him.

"Doctor," she said again, and he found himself annoyed that she'd woken him out of a perfectly nice nap on this perfectly nice floor to ask him if he knew where a doctor was. "You took long enough," she remarked, and he frowned mildly up at her. People these days, no manners whatsoever.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, because that was all he really thought to say. He looked around him, his brow furrowed because he honestly couldn't remember how he got here. He pushed himself up on his hands and the woman sat back to give him room. He returned his gaze to her. "Oh, this is interesting. Uh, sorry," he said again, because her smile was slowly fading and he didn't like that, "where am I?"

"Don't you remember?" She renewed her smile, like that should make him smile too, but he could only stare at her in confusion. It faltered. "Doctor, tell me you remember."

"Remember what? And who's this Doctor? Doctor wh—hey," he said in alarm because she was starting to look scared and unhappy, and that was even worse than the not smiling. "Uh, I think you've got the wrong person, but I can help you find him, alright? What's his name?"

"I don't—I don't understand," she said, and he gave a wincing sort of smile, apologetic.

"Neither do I, I don't think, but that's okay." He smiled, hoping that she'd smile too. "We can not understand together, if you'd like. What's your name?"

"Clara Oswald." Clara had gone from staring at him like she was frightened to scrutinizing him closely, and he fidgeted. Then, very carefully, like she was testing him, she asked, "What's yours?"

He smiled—grinned, really, because that was an easy question. He said as much. "Oh, that's easy! I'm—" The words froze in his mouth, and all that came out was an empty puff of air. Clara watched him as he struggled, snapping his mouth closed and frowning at his feet as he tried to remember his own name. He didn't understand—this was _supposed_ to be easy! It was his name, for crying out loud. "I—I'm sure I had one a second ago," he said, returning his gaze to Clara. He remembered what she'd been calling him when she shook him awake. "You called me 'doctor'," he realized, and she nodded. "Do you know me? Can you tell me my name, please?" He knew names were the sort of things that people tended to need, although he couldn't recall how he knew this other than common sense.

He knew common sense, and yet he didn't know his own name. That wasn't right, but he didn't know _how_ he knew that wasn't right. His head was beginning to hurt so he stopped trying to figure it out.

Clara exhaled and sat back on her haunches, eyeing him with something that looked like dread creeping around the edges of her face. "He ate your stories," she said quietly, so quietly that he almost didn't hear her, and he leaned in with a frown.

"Sorry?" Clara snapped out of her trance and looked _at_ him again, rather than somewhere around his midriff. Her eyes were wide but her mouth thinned into a line as he spoke. "My what? My _stories?_" His frown deepened. "I don't understand."

She leaned forward, her gaze so intense that it made him lean back in turn. "You said you don't remember your name, but do you remember anything else?" As the silence stretched and he struggled to recall anything—his fear growing as he realized that he _couldn't_—Clara's face slowly grew grim. "Anything at all?" she pressed, but he mutely shook his head, bewildered. She sighed. "Didn't think so... Okay." Her smile was rueful and full of an irony that sailed right over his head as she said, with a half-laugh that really wasn't happy at all, "Let's start from page one, then."

**:::**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One**

**:::**

Clara and the Doctor walked through the markets of Akhaten, Clara leading the way as the Doctor looked around him in fascination. He gave a delighted squeak when he saw the great variety of aliens wandering about after the Festival, and Clara had to grab onto the back of his purple coat to keep him from darting off. She gave him an exasperated look as he continued to twist around as they walked, rubbernecking wildly in an attempt to see it all. She couldn't remain annoyed with him, however, when she saw the bright grin on his face. He looked like a child on Christmas morning, blabbering excitedly as they walked. They got more than a few strange looks.

At least, Clara _thought_ they were strange looks - you could never really tell with some of these aliens. Those could be their normal faces. She imagined she looked strange to them, too.

"Here we are," Clara said in obvious relief as they entered the alley they'd originally landed in. The TARDIS hummed at them, and Clara rolled her eyes at it. "Hello to you, too. You in a better mood now? It's a bit of an emergency." But when she tried the doors they remained firmly stuck. "Oh come _on_," she groaned. The Doctor hovered cluelessly behind her, looking up at the blue phone box with a curious twist to his mouth. He was getting the strangest sense of deja vu, except he'd never seen this box before in his life.

"Um, can I try?" He asked tentatively, and Clara turned to look at him. He pointed to the TARDIS. "The doors, can I try to open them?" He scuffed a toe into the ground, feeling suddenly embarrassed. "It's just - I know it's ridiculous but - I think it might listen to me?" It came out as a question accidentally. Clara was looking at him closely once again, like she was trying to figure him out, and it made him fidget.

He was about to apologize and say that his hunch was silly when she stepped to the side gesturing grandly - and sarcastically, he suspected - towards the doors. "Be my guest," she said, and yes, that was definitely sarcasm. The Doctor glanced from Clara to the blue doors before taking a quick step forwards. He hesitated before reaching out to slide a finger along the paneling, and he jumped when the phone box rang out at his touch. Clara watched from behind him, her arms folded. He took a bracing breath and grasped the handles - peeking at the sign on the doors - and tried to pull them open. They rattled but didn't budge.

"You're doing it wrong," Clara said, and he glanced at her with eyebrows raised.

"I'm sorry?"

"You push them inwards," she instructed, and the phone box made another ringing noise, like it agreed with her. He didn't understand.

"But the sign says-" He glanced at it again, confused.

"Forget the sign. You push them in. That's how you used to do it, anyway." She made a 'go on' motion with her hand, looking at him expectantly, huffing and rolling her eyes when he didn't move. "Just try it."

He inhaled deeply again, turning back to the doors. "Alright..." He closed his eyes and mouthed a plea before pushing inward, throwing his entire weight onto it for good measure. He didn't really expect them to open, so he was surprised when the doors parted underneath him and he found himself sprawling forward on the ground just inside the phone box. He could hear Clara laughing behind him, and he groaned into the floor. "Got it." He hoped his face wasn't as red as it felt.

He heard the patter of Clara's feet as she hopped over him into the phone box. She walked in a few paces before whipping around and spreading her arms wide. "Welcome to the TARDIS!" she exclaimed, then smirked a little as she saw him gaping. "Or, welcome back, I guess, seeing as it's basically your mobile home. I think it is, anyway. Didn't get a chance to ask."

"This - this is _mine_?" He goggled at the bigger-on-the-inside phone box, his eyes as wide as saucers. Clara couldn't help but laugh again at his fishlike expression.

"Yup." She smiled, watching as he scrambled to his feet and practically ran to her side, sliding to a stop and spinning in a full circle to look around them. Her smile stretched into a grin when he gave a whoop of laughter.

"This is - this is-" He struggled for words, his eyes still impossibly wide as he laughed again. "_So cool!_ What is it?"

"Time and space machine-slash-ship," said Clara, turning to fiddle with some of the bits on the console as he watched. "You called it a TARDIS. Don't know how it works, though - we didn't get to that part of the tour." She smirked, removing her hands and looking at him over her shoulder. "Anything coming back yet?" He stared up at the layers of metal panels above them, watching in awe as they idly ticked about.

"What?" He blinked, returning his gaze to her. "Oh. No." Clara looked disheartened, and he winced. "Sorry."

She shook her head. "Not your fault." It occurred to Clara then that maybe there was no way for him to get his memories back - that maybe the old god had consumed them for good, leaving nothing left. He had given all of his stories just to save the people of Akhaten - he'd given _himself_ to the old god as a sacrifice in the place of Merry, and still that hadn't been enough. Clara had found him nearly unconscious on the ground of the temple, and she'd be lying if she said that it hadn't scared her half to death. He hadn't died - he was still alive next to her - but it wasn't _him_. The Doctor next to her had none of the Doctor's memories; he hadn't remembered his own name, for crying out loud. Still, he wasn't completely changed - he still resembled the man dressed as a monk she'd met on her doorstep. He just wasn't complete.

She at least owed it to him to help him through this. They _would_ get his memories back.

Noticing that Clara had been silent for a while, the Doctor touched her lightly on the arm, his gaze concerned when she startled and looked at him again. "It's not your fault, either," he told her, and she smiled at that, giving a swift nod.

"Right then!" Clara clapped her hands together, eager to move on. "Do you know how to pilot this thing?" She didn't expect he would, but it couldn't hurt to ask.

"Uh." He cast an intimidated look at the sheer number of levers and buttons and gadgets on the console, and quailed. "No." Her face fell, and Clara stroked her chin.

"Oh." She paused, thinking. "That might be a bit of a problem." She held her hand up, halting his apology. "Don't say sorry," she cut him off, and he obediently closed his mouth. "We just need to figure out a way to get you to remember. Obviously just seeing the TARDIS isn't enough." She lapsed into thought, staring at the time rotor with pursed lips. The Doctor fidgeted.

"Maybe you could tell me about myself," he suggested. Clara waved him away.

"Nothing to tell. Don't know a thing about you." He gaped at her but she didn't notice.

"What - how do you not know anything about me? How long have you known me?"

She turned her gaze to the ceiling, thinking on it for a second. "About a day, I'd say." The Doctor managed to gape even harder, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline, and she noticed this time. "What's that face for?"

"You barely know me and yet you jumped onto my time and space machine-slash-ship? Just like that?" Clara glowered at him slightly, pointing a finger at him.

"Look, I don't know what you're implying, _mister_, but I'll have you know that I kept you waiting and that I fully intended to return home after this trip was over." She faltered, pursing her lips thinly. "But then things went a bit bad, and now I guess we're stuck on Akhaten, since you've forgotten how to drive your own snogbox." The TARDIS trilled at the nickname irritably, and Clara shook her head at the ceiling. The Doctor had flushed out of embarrassment.

"I didn't mean to imply anything," he said hastily, wincing an apology. _Snogbox?_ "I'm sorry, it's just - this is all a bit much to take in." He massaged his temple with another wince - the headache had intensified into a dull, repetitive throbbing. It felt like someone was repeatedly kicking his head in from the inside. "I just woke up a few minutes ago," he added weakly.

Clara's face softened ever-so-slightly in sympathy. "I guess it would be a bit overwhelming, yeah," she admitted. "Maybe you should lie down a bit."

"That sounds like a good idea," the Doctor agreed, and without any further ado he turned on his heel and skipped up the stairs and into the corridor. Clara watched, wondering if perhaps he was subconsciously recalling the layout of the TARDIS. Then he came back, looking sheepish.

"Uh - sorry - where's my room?"

**:::**

The Doctor pranced through the TARDIS kitchen, generally making a mess of things and scattering varying foodstuffs onto the counter with careless abandon. Clara sat on the counter with her feet swinging, watching with a kind of morbid fascination as he hummed and went from nibbling on a ginger cookie to taking a massive chomp out of a pickle. She made a face. The Doctor didn't notice, making an unfavorable face and slowly placing the bitten pickle back onto its plate. "Nope, definitely not," he muttered, spinning around to search for something else.

Clara raised her voice above his clattering about in the fridge. "Whatever happened to lying down for a bit?" She pulled her feet up onto the counter, sitting cross-legged and placing her hands on her ankles. She made another face and tittered a bit when he tilted his head back and sprayed an entire mouthful of whip cream into his mouth straight from the can. There were clearly visible traces of cream around his mouth, and he struggled to close his mouth without making a mess. Clara touched her hand to her mouth to hide her smile.

"Eating," he responded thickly around the whipped cream. "Eating is better." He swallowed and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a long trace of white along the bottom of his chin and under his nose. He didn't notice, returning to his rummaging before making a frustrated noise. "Agh! Or it would be, if there were anything _good_ to eat!"

She reached over and plucked his barely eaten ginger cookie off of the plate, biting into it and smiling. "I'unno, this tastes pretty good," she mumbled.

"No, no, it doesn't _work_. There's something I'm missing, something..." He paced, shaking his hands as he thought. Where he had been subdued and confused before, now he was all manic energy and darting about. Maybe it was all the sugar he'd consumed. Clara had never seen anyone guzzle so much food so fast, and never things that would taste disgusting together. She cast a disgusted glance at the peanut butter and olives.

One thing was certain: the Doctor was _strange_.

"A_ha!_" An excited exclamation jerked Clara out of her thoughts, and she looked over to see the Doctor brandishing a box of fish fingers triumphantly like it was a gold medal at the Olympics. "Eureka!" he cheered, and she shook her head.

While they warmed in the microwave, the Doctor jittered from foot to foot impatiently. "Come on..." he whined. But Clara was baffled to see him looking down at them dispassionately when they were on a plate before him. Sighing heavily, she plonked herself down in the seat next to him. God help her, she was tired. Saved a world and then had to deal with this; could you blame her?

"What is it now?" she asked wearily. He pouted, then solidified that pout into a scowl.

"It's not _right!_" he complained. Clara threw her hands into the air.

"What, do you want them to sprout limbs and do the Charleston for you?" asked Clara, frustrated. When he looked at her in incredulous surprise, she gave a groan and massaged the bridge of her nose, pinching her eyes closed in irritation. "_No, they can't do that._"

"Oh," he said, sounding disappointed.

"Look, Doctor, just eat them, alright? Then we'll find you a room so you can lay down." When he opened his mouth to argue she looked at him almost murderously. "_You are going to lay down._" He snapped his mouth closed with an audible click, nodding obediently and taking a large bite out of a fish finger. Even though he grimaced as he did, he went on to eat every single one - Clara's staring him down the entire time probably had something to do with it.

**:::**

Clara sat at the kitchen table, slumped forwards onto it with her forehead resting flush on the wood. She groaned. Not only had she spent an entire hour helping the Doctor look for a room that suited his surprisingly picky tastes, the TARDIS hadn't made any rooms available for Clara herself, so she'd resorted to napping at the kitchen table. An arrangement that, not-so-surprisingly, resulted in absolutely no comfort whatsoever and a rather nasty crick in her neck. Clara rolled her face to the side so she had her cheek and ear pressed into the wood, staring resentfully up at the ceiling. It wasn't her fault that the TARDIS was petty, although maybe if she hadn't called it a snogbox...

She scoffed. She wasn't going to feel sorry for calling it what it was. And it _was_ a snogbox - or, at least, it had been. Does the fact that a person forgets any snogging that may or may not have taken place inside a box make the box just a normal box?

Clara lifted her head an inch or so above the table, and dropped it back down with a thump. She closed her eyes.

She had no idea what she could do to help the Doctor.

She had literally known him for all of one day, give or take several hours, when _this_ happened. This... memory loss. And now she was stuck on an alien planet with an alien who had absolutely no idea who he was or what he could do or, most importantly in regards to Clara, how to get her back home. The worst part of it was that she had barely known him when he had all his memories, thus she had no idea where to start in order to get them back.

Clara thumped her head against the table again, squeezing her eyes closed tighter. This was all just a big mess, and it was up to her to sort it out. She groaned again.

_We don't walk away._ No, we certainly don't. And he was damned lucky for it.

**:::**

The Doctor, meanwhile, was staring at the ceiling of the largely blue room he'd chosen and trying not to fret too much. He turned onto his side, nestling his head further into the pillow and forcefully closing his eyes. Maybe if he counted sheep.

_One sheep._ He felt guilty. _Two sheep._ He felt guilty, and he had a good idea as to why. _Three sheep._ It was because of Clara. _Four sheep._ He was also frustrated. _Five sheep._ Also because of Clara - no, not because of Clara, but rather for her. _Six sheep._ He wanted to remember, but he didn't know how. _Seven sheep._ He wanted to help her, but again he didn't know how. _Eight sheep._ He didn't know how to get her home, either. _Nine sheep._ He had a feeling that she was his responsibility, and yet she was the one taking care of him. _Ten sheep._ If only he could remember, that would surely fix everything. _Eleven..._

Those sheep were really doing nothing for him, anyway.

Uneasy, he sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed, leaning forward and placing his head in his hands. "Come on, something," he whispered. "Give me something." He rubbed at his eyes fiercely and pressed until he saw spots, blinking rapidly.

Nothing. He felt the disappointment well up-

_'Thief.'_

The Doctor shrieked.


End file.
